


Maiden

by goodgirl_astray



Series: Love Eventually [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ejaculation, F/M, Kissing, Licking, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post Season 7, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Wedding Night, eventual vaginal sex, lots of stuff except vaginal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13387101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirl_astray/pseuds/goodgirl_astray
Summary: Post season 7BAMF! Arya is sent on a mission by the King in the North. At the advice of the Lady of Winterfell, with the backing of the Dragon Queen and her Hand, Jon makes Arya take the Hound with her, much to her displeasure.Sandor Clegane is older and slower but strong and fiercely loyal.A man's got to have a code, and Sandor's code says that anything goes if it's to keep Arya from trying to ditch him to complete the mission on her own.Don't ask what mission. If plot happens, smut might not happen, and who wants that?This story was inspired by the sadly unfinished storyThe Wolf and the Houndfrom ff.netCheck it out! It's amazing. Unfortunately - last updated on Oct 2016





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because Arya and Sandor are so damn sexually repressed in "Masks"... this happened.

 

 

Arya spurred her horse harder than necessary, trying to put some distance between herself and her unwanted companion.

How had she gotten stuck travelling with Sandor Clegane again?

 She was a ruthless, efficient killing machine. He was not, and would never be a great killer.

She could walk into the bed chamber of her enemy without anyone noticing. One look at his face and anyone in the Seven Kingdoms could identify him.

She was stealthy and fluid. He was strong and unyielding.

She was fast and nimble. He was big, and that fucking limp made him slow. The limp he got fighting to protect her. She shook her head, as if she could physically dispel that thought from her mind.

She looked over her shoulder. He wasn't galloping desperately to try to catch up with her. He fucking expected her to wait for him. And she did because Jon made her promise.

 He looked a lot more serene than she'd ever seen him when they travelled together, all those years ago. The Hound hadn't been afraid of dying. He had survived because he was too good at killing people. She swallowed the knot that rose unbidden into her throat. She had been… happy to find out he was alive.

 Happy.

 She tried to shove that aside, unwilling to accept what came with it. One side of the coin was being happy he was alive. The other… She couldn't afford to think what it would feel like if she got him killed. She had nearly cost him his life once.

 "Did you fall asleep in the fucking saddle?" she shouted at him when he was close enough to hear her.

 "The little lady needs to brush up her manners," he drawled.

 "What are you, my Septa? The fuck you know about manners?"

 "Enough to know that the King's sister shouldn't have such a filthy mouth."

 She rolled her eyes and spurred her horse again, less aggressively than before. She had to put up with him for a while. Until she could think of a way to ditch him without breaking her promise. In the meantime, she needed to hit someone.

 They ran into trouble not long after that. The men who attacked them we shit at stealth. Arya had noticed them miles before they attacked.

 She danced like Syrio had taught her. She killed like Jaqen had showed her. She dispatched of the men with graceful movements. She cut them down, one by one, relishing the poetry of her movements. That was how Sansa probably felt when she was dancing.

 Her routine was cut short when the last two men fell under the heavy blows of an axe. She had to admire his precision, even if he had stolen two kills from her. Her eyes sparkled and her whole body felt alive. If she expected a similar elation from him, she was disappointed.

 "If you do that again, I'll put you over my knee, I don't care you're a fucking Stark."

 He barked the words to her and walked back to his horse.

 "What in the seven hells is your problem?" she shouted after him. "I was handling it just fine. I didn't need your help with these…"

 "People. They were people," he said, still not looking at her.

 "They were shits who tried to rob us, and probably kill us as well."

 "I thought I was the worst shit in the Seven Kingdoms."

 "Plenty worse than you," she said, her voice breaking.

 He froze, and Arya turned on her heels before she could see the expression on his face when he looked at her again. She mounted her horse and rode on.

 For all the horrible things they had flung at each other when she was his captive, they didn't find anything to say to each other any more.

 Arya tried insulting him a few times, but she got no satisfaction from his silence. If she could only believe he was sullen, and held his tongue for some stupid reason like her being Jon's sister or a highborn lady, it would be worth taunting him. But he was genuinely not bothered by anything she said. Fighting an army of undead probably put things into perspective.

 They were attacked again the very next evening. Not a moment too soon for her taste. She needed to vent.

 She threw herself into the deadly dance again. He must have been ready for her recklessness because he managed to kill with his axe more people than she killed with Needle and the Valyrian dagger from Bran.

 "That was aweso-"

 He caught her by the scruff of her neck and forced her belly down onto his knees, knocking the air out of her. Before she could be outraged by his behavior, he pulled down her breeches and smacked her bottom hard.

 Her skin burned where his palm made contact with her flesh. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp but he pressed her down against his knees while his other hand kept hitting her ass harder and faster, making her dizzy and...

 The loud moan shocked both of them. His hand froze in the air and Arya stopped squirming.

 What the fuck had just happened?

 She tried to breathe normally, but despite her efforts, she was panting. He hesitated to hit her again, and she hesitated to make a run for it. He snapped out of the trance first. The next slap sounded like cracking a whip, but felt like nothing Arya had ever experienced before. Pain that was not pain.

 She tensed, preparing for the next one. Longing for it. The expectation became unbearable. He wasn't holding her any more. She should be moving. She could get away.

 When the next slap landed on her ass cheeks, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It came out as a whimper. He caressed her buttocks and Arya pushed her ass up in the air to get more. His hand slid accidentally lower. His fingertips brushed between her thighs.

 She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the moan.

 His hand rested on her ass, covering the very same skin he had reddened. She desperately wished he'd go on, spanking her some more or exploring further, deeper. But he wasn't, and Arya jumped out of his lap, pulled up her trousers and walked away.

 She thought he would make fun of her, but when morning came, they fell back into the uncomfortable silence of the day before. That was probably the best she could hope for from then on. Pretend that nothing weird had just happened.

 They were lucky to find an abandoned shed in the middle of nowhere right before night fell. She settled in the corner farthest from him and focused on the loaf of bread, willing that taste to occupy all of her senses.

 "Come here," he said.

 She was next to him before it occurred to her to refuse. He pulled her down across his lap. She tried to stand up as soon as she sat down but the strong arms wrapped around her waist prevented any such movement.

 "You're pretty antsy," he said. "I can do something about that."

 "Oh, please. What can you possibly-"

 He bent his head and put his mouth on her breast. He bit it lightly. Arya lost her voice under the torrent of confusing sensations. How could his mouth feel so good on top of her clothes? How good would it feel without the shirt?

 His hand found her free breast and kneaded it gently. She squealed when he pinched her nipple.

 "If you promise to behave, I'll let you finish," he said.

 Finish? What did he mean by that?

 The questions melted from her mind when he reached under her shirt.

 "Promise me," he demanded, trailing his fingertips lazily on her skin.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

## Arya

 

The temptation to promise anything as long as he would keep touching her was overwhelming. She closed her eyes, fighting for clarity. What did he mean? Letting her finish…

 She struggled to remember what she had learned mingling in brothels. Not much when it came to what women got out of fucking. Maybe her Septa or her mother or even Sansa who had been married twice could have taken five minutes to tell her…

 He was still touching her. Feather like touches across her scarred belly. It should have tickled her, not set her skin ablaze. He let out a low hiss when she dug her nails in his shoulder.

 ‘Think, Arya. Think!'

 There was little room for thought when he cupped her breast in his big hand. Arya usually wore male garments and armor trying to hide the fact that she had filled up quite a bit over the years. His rough palm grated against her smooth skin. The exquisite friction kept her off balance, unable to think straight.

 “What do you have to lose?" he asked, slowly, sounding a bit strained.

 She used to hate his voice. Or rather the harsh truths he threw at her. Now his gravelly timbre flamed the embers of this puzzling desire.

 “I don't know," she admitted.

 "You've been good today," he said. "I'll give you a taste."

  

 

## Sansa

 

 "She will come back to you, my lady," Brienne said.

 "I hardly dare to hope," Sansa said. "I lived so long believing she was dead… Seeing her again, here, in Winterfell… I can't bear losing her again."

 "The Hound will protect her," Tyrion Lannister said. "Forgive the intrusion, my lady. I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

 She could hardly call it eavesdropping, staying as they were on the castle's battlements. Sansa turned her gaze from the horizon where she unreasonably hoped to see Arya returning so soon after she left.

 "No need for forgiveness, lord Tyrion. I know you advised the Queen and Jon to send him with Arya, supporting my own advice."

 "I did. He is a capable and resourceful fighter. Lady Arya gained certain skills, but sometimes nothing beats armor and a big sword."

 Sansa looked from him to Brienne. She trusted that strange man, who had once saved her life and another time given her the chance to escape the Lannisters' guilded cage. 

 "He would die to protect her, my lady," Brienne said. "I have first knowledge of that."

 "Even better," Tyrion said. "He will kill to protect her."

 Sansa had had the best intentions when she had nagged Jon to force Arya to take Sandor Clegane with her. Now she was plagued by doubts. Arya had done so well on her own for so long. And she'd been so adamant that she didn't need anyone else on her mission. She had been as close to being mad at Jon for not giving her a choice in the matter as Sansa had ever seen her.

 "I'm glad we're all here because we all knew the Hound," Sansa said. "Am I the only one to see how different he is? Lord Tyrion, you knew him since he was a young man. Lady Brienne, you fought him and nearly killed him. Does he seem to you the same vicious fighter he once was?"

 The others hesitated before answering.

 "He seems to have changed," Brienne said. "I only fought him once, and yes, he was vicious. But he has gone beyond the Wall, fought the undead, and he survived. He is an experienced fighter who will serve lady Arya well."

 "The Hound would have been my first choice after my brother to stand for me in the combat by trial, against Cersei's… champion. He'd be my first choice now."

 Sansa knew the fealty that bound the Cleganes to the Lannisters. She knew the good use Cersei had done of her own monstrous Clegane.

 She wanted to believe their reassurances. All they could do was strategize and speculate. Out of the three of them, Brienne was the only one who was actually capable of doing something in the field of battle.

 An unexpected wave of tenderness washed over her when she looked at Tyrion. Her former husband's face rivaled Sandor Clegane's in terms of damage, but his eyes sparkled with intelligence, humor… life. Both his eyes were beautiful in their own way, and the combination was intriguing. How had she ever thought anything else?

 "Lady Brienne, could you excuse us for a few moments. I need to speak to Lord Tyrion privately. Please make sure no one else comes up here until we finished."

 When she was gone, Sansa sat down, with her back against the wall and she drew her knees up to her chest. It was a childish gesture, and she wouldn't have allowed anyone to see her so vulnerable, but Tyrion wasn't just anyone. He sat next to her and waited for her to speak.

 "How are you, my lord?" she asked.

 "It depends how you look at it," he said. "I'm the Hand of a Queen who doesn't sit on the Iron Throne. A little way North there's an army of the undead coming to kill everyone. The wine supplies in Winterfell are almost to an end. Looking at it this way, not my best year."

 "What's another way to look at it?"

 He heard the smile in her voice, and smiled back.

 "The other way is that I'm in the strongest castle in the North. I have the friendship of the Warden of the North. Most of my enemies are dead. And Winterfell's wine supplies are not yet depleted."

 She burst out laughing.

 "And we're alive," he said, more softly.

 "Are we still married?" she asked suddenly.

 The question had been on her mind for days. Only after Ramsay's death her mind turned to her first husband. All the revulsion she had felt when instead of marrying the charming Ser Loras she had been thrown to the Imp was gone. She was ashamed for not being kinder to him. She had been a child, unable to understand how kind he'd been to her.

 "Probably not. I think my father fixed the records as soon as Joffrey died. He wasn't the type to leave matters of inheritance to chance. If you had a child, even with me dead, that child would have had a claim to Casterly Rock. And the Lannister name."

 "Oh," she said. 

 "When we're in King's Landing, we can check the records. We'll get it annulled then, if it's not."

 Her heart shrunk a little more at his words. Sansa - the political strategist, Sansa - Littlefinger's apprentice didn't take it personally. Sansa - the woman felt like she lost her husband again.

 "Can you see us in King's Landing? With Wildlings, Dothraki warriors and dragons?"

 "I can," he said, looking into her eyes.

 She wanted to believe him. And she did.

 "Thank you, my lord. For everything."

 For the small kindnesses when Joffrey was torturing her. For not bedding her against her will. For coming with an army and standing with her in the Great War. She tried to reach out to him, to bridge the distance years and circumstances put between them.

 "I don't begin to understand how hard it is for you to fight against your family. Arya was a pain since she was a child, but I want her home and safe."

She was too ashamed to admit that, like her mother, she had never really loved Jon, and only recently she had come to truly love him like a brother.

 "She will come back. I'd bet good money that Sandor Clegane is the same vicious dog when it comes to protecting his master," Tyrion said. "He might not look it, but he's in his prime as a fighter. Lady Brienne is correct. He will serve your sister well."

  

## Arya

 

Sandor unlaced her breeches, and dipped his hand into them. The motion had started aggressively but it mellowed into a sweet caress. She pressed her thighs together instinctively to deny access. Her eyes rolled back into her head as he coaxed one finger between her folds, reaching her sensitive flesh.

 She put her hand on his forearm, to push him away or to press him deeper inside her, she couldn't decide. The muscles under her fingers felt like iron. Hot, unyielding, heavenly iron. He didn't tell her to relax, and he didn't force his way between her legs.

 To her surprise, he pulled her closer and started nuzzling at her neck. The combination of his prickly beard and his soft lips was intoxicating. He grazed her skin with his teeth, mixed licking with sucking, and above everything else, she heard his heavy breathing in her ear. Everything built up the pressure in her lower belly, and she relaxed her legs, allowing him to slide all along her pussy.

 He circled frustratingly around her entrance for a long time, then dipped in only one finger, shallowly. She bucked her hips, desperate for more, but he pulled his hand back. Before she could complain, he focused on the bundle of nerves that usually served as her primary mean of climax.

 Arya didn't often indulge in pleasuring herself, and when she did, it was usually fast and functional. Her own touch was familiar and efficient. Sandor's fingers played a very different melody on the same instrument.

 She chased her climax greedily. Her touch starved body overloaded with sensation and soon a million stars exploded behind her tightly shut eyelids. She stayed in that perfect moment for as long as he could, pulsating under his fingers.

 Her bones seem to melt with a sweet and strange weariness. She let him hold her and sighed contentedly when he stroked her hair.  

 “Two things," he said, gathering her tenderly in his arms. "This is a reward for days when you don't try to get rid of me. When you don't get into fights you could have avoided."

 She rested her cheek on his shoulder, her attention split between his words and the remnants of her climax.

 "I will never use this to change how you fight. So never, not even for a heartbeat, think about it while you fight."

 They both knew that in the heat of the battle, any distraction or hesitation could be fatal. Especially with Arya's fast paced fighting style. Second guessing herself could get her, or both of them, killed. She mumbled her agreement.

 "Second," he said.

 He remained quiet for a while. Arya raised her head muzzily to see his face.

 "I know you are a maiden. You will stay that way until you are back at Winterfell."

 She couldn't feel less like a maiden at that moment, with tremors coursing through her body, ghostly but delicious reminders of the pure ecstasy he had crafted with his hands. She could still feel his fingers slide through the slickness of her heated flesh.

 “How can you possibly know that?"

 Her cheeks grew warm, deeply embarrassed to discuss the matter.

 “I heard the King talking to your sister."

 “What?" she exclaimed, and jumped out of his arms.

 Arya hadn't thought she could blush any worse. She had been wrong. Her cheeks grew as red as Sansa's hair. Sansa! Talking about her… private intimate bloody private things. Why had she ever confided in that cold bitch?

 And how the fuck would something like that even come up in conversation?!

 “They were discussing potential alliances," he said. "Marriage."

 They wouldn't do this to her. Not after everything. They wouldn't make her marry for honor, for Winterfell, for the greater good.

 They would. Both of Sansa's marriages had been political and unfortunate, but necessary for survival. Jon seemed to like the Dragon Queen.

 She busied herself with furs and blankets, setting up the place where she would sleep. Where they would sleep. Thinking about that was worse than worrying about marriage. That particular horror waited for her when she got back to Winterfell. The man who had shaken her world was close, and warm, and as much as she hated to admit it, she wanted more of him.

 She wondered if Danaerys herself thought of it as a political maneuver. She was used to men worshiping her, she might just be using Jon. Like Sansa, the Dragon Queen had been married twice before. Somehow when it came to her, being a maiden wasn't essential all of a sudden.

 She lay down and pulled the heavy cloak up to her nose. She took in a few deep, steadying breaths.

 Marriage. Pff! She was so much better at killing people. But she was a Stark. And she would do her duty. Although, after what had just happened, she had to wonder if she would remain a maid much longer. She was not at all sure she wanted to keep her maidenhead for some lord who didn't care about her.  

 He jolted her out of her musings.

 "Go to sleep, girl."

 "You're wrong, you know?" she said.

 He let out an exasperated sigh. "About?"

 "About still being a maiden when we get back."

 "Plenty of games to play without bedding you," he said in a growly tone that reminded her of warning her to kill him or let him sleep.

Her reaction to it was far from the hatred mixed with fear she felt when she had to drop the rock. It was a different shade of fear now. She still was powerless against him, except it wasn't physical strength this time. Her own body was betraying her.

 "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" 

"Aye," he said. "You'll see."

  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about splitting the sex scene. I just wanted to have Arya being serviced by Sandor right after Sansa is told (by people who meant to reassure her) that Sandor would serve Arya well.  
> Well.... he did do that, didn't he?


	3. Chapter 3

## Arya

 

 She'd been good all day. Not for any stupid reward. She hadn't even thought about it even once. Maybe some fleeting thought she had accidentally rubbed against the saddle at some strange angle while galloping.

 She just hadn't had any opportunities to get rid of him. She knew she would. He was big and imposing and she wouldn't want to cross swords with him, but he'd better off away from her.

 He looked stronger and healthier than she'd ever seen him. Even that first time at Winterfell, before the world started to crumble. He was healthy and well rested then. And younger. Maybe she had a better eye for what made a man a fearsome fighter. If she had to choose a version of Sandor Clegane to face in battle, she would choose the one who hadn't won against Beric Dondarion's flaming sword. The one who hadn't fought the undead. The one who hadn't yet known that a woman could beat him in brutal combat. The one who hadn't taught a little girl how to kill.

 She was grateful for his silence. About the night before. About everything. First chance she got, she'd leave him somewhere safer than where she had to go. There would be no safety for anyone until the Great War was over and the right Targaryen would be on the throne. But he'd be safer than follow her to certain death.

 She wished she could thank him for all the extra years he bought for her by protecting her. She was living on borrowed time, but he still had a chance of a long life. He had said yes to the Many-Faced God once, but the God had said no that day. She wondered if she would give him the gift, if he asked again. 

 They stopped their horses when they approached the village.

 "Remember your manners, Father," she said.

 "Aye," he said, spurring his horse. "Let's find the inn. I bet they have shit ale."

 "You've never tasted shit ale like they serve in Ragman Harbor taverns," she said.

 She'd hated the warm and sugary liquid they called ale. She had some while blending in with the patrons of the harbor wearing one of the faces she'd stolen from the Temple. Waiting for the ship that would take her back to Westeros.

 They wore non-descript armor and they'd say they fought for House Tully if anyone asked. Arya's worst fear was that someone might recognized the Hound's burned face. She wanted a good sleep in a decent bed, not kill a dozen people and ride out of the village at full speed during the pitch black night.

 The innkeeper didn't seem too observant, which was always good in an innkeeper. She chose a table in a poorly lit corner of the common room. At the table next to them, she heard some drunken idiots swap stories about Sansa enjoying her marriage with Ramsey Bolton. She could kill them on the spot.

 When the Hound tensed next to her, Arya realized that her Valyrian dagger was halfway out of its sheath. Sansa hadn't spoken much about what Ramsay had done to her, but Arya was certain it was more than she had told anyone else. And that stupid peasant made fun of her.

 No. She would not kill him then. But it would be worth beating the shit out of him. She would put a rag in his mouth, flay a strip of skin, and ask him if he enjoyed Ramsay Bolton's games.

 "Looks like you're done eating," Sandor said, standing up.

 Arya realized that she had paused with the drumstick in the air while thinking of how she would torture the guy. Her stomach growled in protest as she left the table, but she couldn't risk blowing their cover by contradicting her father.

  

 

## Sansa

 

 "The North won't forget," she said. "If we win, the North will never again trust the southern kingdoms."

 "After we win, we'll see what we'll do about that," Tyrion said. "We still have envoys in the South. Many great and small houses still have to declare their allegiance."

 When he spoke, Sansa felt some hope creep back into her soul. She thought in terms of 'if' and he thought in terms of 'when'. She liked his open-eyed faith, his stubbornness, his incessantly working brain. A version of Petyr Baelish whose end game was not him on the Iron Throne, but someone brave and fierce. Tyrion was happy to do the work in the shadows as long as what they fought for was in the light.

 "How did they mend the county last time? My father didn't speak of the rebellion. Or at least, not to me. Arya knew every battle."

 Tyrion sat back in his chair closing his eyes and rubbed his temples. Whenever they were in public, he emanated energy and relaxed confidence. In this small chamber, he looked as tired as Sansa had suspected. She appreciated that he didn't hide it from her. He could have told her to leave hours ago. Instead they stayed and pooled together their knowledge, envisioned situations and contingencies and weaved plans and backup plans.

 "After the dust and ashes settled, they did what they've always done. Alliances by marriage."

 "Robert and your sister."

 He nodded. "But we don't have that option. Jon and Danaerys won't marry others."

 "Jon is a Stark. Not my father's son, but Lyanna's."

 "And he will be a hero of the Great War. A man who died in the Night's Watch. That still won't make up for all the Houses under Cersei's control who didn't join in. As you well said, my lady, the North will remember."

 She poured herself a glass of wine. Tyrion opened his eyes at the sound, and Sansa came with the bottle and filled his glass as well.

 "What's really bothering you, my lady?"

 "What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.

 He merely looked inquiringly at her, and Sansa frowned. Why was she thinking about the peace in the Seven Kingdoms after a war they might not even win? She sighed realizing what was bothering her.

 "It's easier to think about that than to tell Arya when she gets back."

 "Do you think she will refuse?"

 Her shoulders slumped. "No. I almost wish she would."

  

 

## Arya

 

 

"They didn't know what they were saying," he said after barring the door to their room.

 "Why did they have to say anything?" she asked through gritted teeth. "Feeding him to his dogs was too quick a death for him."

 He took off his armor, and sat on the edge of the bed. Arya was still in character as a dutiful son and she knelt on the floor to help him take off his boots.

 "What would you have done to him?"

 She arranged his boots and his armor neatly before proceeding to make herself more comfortable. Torture was not one of the things she learned in the House of Black and White. When she recited her list at night, she had thought she hated those people, yet she had wanted to give them a clean death. When she had learned what Ramsay did to people, dark dreams of torturing him came to her at night. She had made it her business to learn how Sansa's maid had died for trying to help her. Arya didn't even remember the old woman's name, but it didn't matter.

 "There are ways to keep a body barely alive for a long time," she said.

 "Come here."

 She managed to stop herself after the first step. How did he manage to get her to obey commands like a trained dog? He was the dog and she was the direwolf.

 "We need to sleep," he said. "This place is safe enough."

 "You're sleeping on the floor," she said.

 He shook his head ruefully, but he stood up. He wore his hair shorter, and Arya craned to see the traces of the bite on his neck. If he had trusted her enough to burn it, how different might their lives have been?

 She snuck under the heavy covers while he arranged his bedding before the hearth. So, the fire didn't bother him any longer.

 The long ride had been exhausting. She should have fallen asleep as soon as she settled in, but a restlessness took over her. She tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position to go to sleep. Maybe she wasn't used to sleeping in a proper bed any more.

 She startled out of her skin when the bed dipped under his weight. How hadn't she heard him move?

 "Almost forgot," he said.

 The blanket began sliding down her body.

 "The fuck-"

 "You've been good today."

 Her mouth went dry and her heartbeat picked up. She should tell him off. She should say something sassy and cruel to dispel any notions he'd gotten into that thick skull.

 His hand found her breast in the dark and most thoughts flew out of Arya's mind. Now she was fighting back the words that rose in her throat.

 Words like 'Gods!'

 'Please!'

 'Yes!'

 'More'

 She didn't know more of what. More of everything. More of what he was doing to her breasts and more of what he had done the night before. She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to stop from speaking.

 He pulled up the hem of her shirt, and Arya's cheeks burned with shame when she arched her back to help him. He lowered himself over her and after a few sloppy kisses on each of her breasts in turn, he latched his mouth to the right one. She put her palm over her mouth to stop from screaming as he teased and suckled.

 The heat between her legs became unbearable and Arya fought to keep from begging him to touch her. When it got too much, she spread her legs a little and reached her hand down. She couldn't remember ever finding her pussy so wet. She hissed as if in pain when she touched herself. The flesh was highly sensitized, a few fast caresses would be enough for her to crest.

 An embarrassing mewling whine escaped her when Sandor gripped her wrist and shoved her hand away. She didn't get a chance to protest because his hand replaced hers. His fingers glided delicately up and down her wetness. All the while his lips were still wrapped around her breast, his tongue flicking over her nipple, sending lightning bolts through her body.

 It was killing her to feel him ignore the bundle of nerves that would grant her release in a few seconds. He trailed his finger up and down as if he wasn't sure where he wanted to stop. He hesitated for a hearbeat at her entrance.

 Arya's eyes opened wide and she gasped when he pushed his thick finger all the way inside her. It felt nothing at all as the few times she had tried it herself. Her muscles tightened around it but it didn't stop him from pulling it out and pushing it back in over and over and over.

 Her ragged breathing was loud and so were the wet noises that accompanied his thrusts. Mercifully he had stopped sucking and licking at her breasts. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, when he slowed down. He hooked the finger inside her and found a spot she hadn't know existed inside her.

 She clutched desperately at the sheets. His palm over her mouth muffled the screams of ecstasy. It seemed to take an eternity before the pleasure subsided to a manageable level.

 Her body was still quivering when she opened her eyes. She could barely make out his shape in the dying light of the fire. She gasped when he put the finger in his mouth.

 "So sweet," he said. "Can't wait to taste you properly. Some other night."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and you shall be given :)  
> Seriously, every comment fuels the fire! 
> 
> Sorry about the abrupt ending. The chapter was getting too long.

## Arya

 

 Arya couldn't remember the last time she'd been so relaxed. She yawned and stretched and she gradually realized she was in a bed. The previous night's events presented themselves in random order. The very first thing she remembered was the shadowy image of Sandor Clegane licking his fingers. And those words.

He wanted to taste her. Properly.

 Seven hells! Until he'd said it, she had no idea she needed that in her life. How would it feel? How would he do it?

 She held her breath remembering the storm he had generated inside her. The way he touched her. How the hell did he know she had a secret spot when she hadn't found it herself? She'd been too busy being other people to find out some very important things about herself.

 She hated getting out of bed, but the more they lingered in their room, the more daylight they wasted, and they had a long way to go.

 She cringed when she saw him sleep in front of the fire. She had commanded him to sleep on the floor, and he had. Even after… the thing.

 Tenderness. For fuck's sake that was just about the last thing she could afford to feel for her travelling companion. She had to get rid of him. Sooner rather than later.

 Quietly, she put on her clothes. She considered leaving without him. If only she had spiked his drink the night before. She had essence of nightshade and milk of the poppy, as well as other few potions from Braavos that would put someone to sleep. Without a sedative, he'd be up and chasing her in a matter of minutes if not hours. She needed at least half a day advance if she wanted to lose the Hound.

 Not long ago, Arya would have kicked him awake. Now she stood next to the sleeping man, unable to decide what to do. She could shake his shoulder. She could tickle his ear with a feather. She could pour water on his head.

 "We have to go," she said loudly.

 He went from deep sleep to fully functional instantly. Without a word, he put on his boots and armor. Arya barely had time to roll up his blanket, and sneak a peek at him before the steel and leather hid his body from her eyes.

 They rode mostly in silence again. Whatever he changed into at night, during the day he was the same grouchy old dog she'd had to put up with as a child.

 When they entered the village, Arya assessed it as best she could. Would this be a good place where to leave him? They were far enough from Lannister territories for people to have ever heard about the Hound. 

 

## Sansa

 

 "He's old and vile and I hope he dies before Arya gets back," Sansa said as soon as she was alone with Tyrion.

 "You didn't promise him anything. His ships are useful, of course, but they're not the only way."

 He poured himself some wine and swirled it around in his glass. He drank a less and less as the days went by. Sansa had made sure they restocked the Winterfell wine supplies and she had even paid an outrageous sum for a case of good vintage Dornish wine Ser Davos had managed to track from a smuggler friend of his.

 "The North rallied behind your family, my lady. We have support all the way to the Twins. It's my turn to go south and broker deals for the Queen."

 Sansa shivered. Further south than the Twins was dangerously close to King's Landing. For Tyrion, that meant constant danger.

 "I've wasted resources taking Casterly Rock. I'm going to follow your example. I'll knock on the door of every House and plead our case."

 She wanted to find arguments for him to stay. What if the undead breached the Wall? He'd say he was not much use in battle, but he had defended King's Landing from Stannis. He'd been the architect of the Blackwater victory.

"Who will you take with you?"

 "I need your help with this. I want them to see how little it matters who we are when it comes to the threat we're facing. I will take a few Dothraki warriors, a few unsullied soldiers, but I also need some representatives of the North."

 "I'll come with you," she said.

 "My lady, I did not mean for you to-"

 "I understood, Lord Tyrion. You'll have your pick of any of the men of the northern Houses, and Knights of the Vale. But I will represent the North myself."

 "Lady Sansa, you are needed here."

 "Jon is back. He is the King in the North. I am its Warden. And I will best serve the North by getting allies to stand with us."

 He opened his mouth to speak again, but she cut him off.

 "I know what your sister is capable of and I am afraid of her. But she won't make me hide."

 He hung his head. "If this is the start of my negotiation with the Heads of Houses, I'm off to a poor start."

 Sansa beamed at him.

 "On the contrary, my lord. You have a Head of House joining you already."

 

## Arya

 

 Her hand had trembled when she poured the essence of nightshade into his cup. She cursed her unexpected clumsiness. She had meant to give him four drops because his sheer bodyweight meant that the standard three drops would not be enough. But with more than four drops she ran the risk of long term damage. Not death probably, but she couldn't risk it.

 She took his cup and put it to her lips without drinking, then set it on the table out of his reach. For a moment she wondered if he had noticed. Fortunately, the roast chicken was delicious, and he was gnawing at a bone.

 "Could you kill someone with this?" he asked showing her the clean bone.

 "My list is almost done," she said, remembering his warm laughter when she had said that she would kill Joffrey with a chicken bone, "but if it's all I have, I'll kill her with this."

 He tossed it away.

 "By the time you get to King's Landing, she will be dragon shit."

 Arya swallowed a knot in her throat. He hadn't said "we". He didn't see himself by her side when they took over the Capital. She couldn't think about that. It was a problem for another day. She poured the spiked wine on the floor.

 When they got to their room she didn't get a chance to tell him to sleep on the floor. He set down the blankets as soon as he undressed. He looked so much younger wearing only his breeches and that loose undershirt. Her eyes rested on the wound on his neck again.

 "Aye, I should have let you burn it," he said.

 She looked away, embarrassed she got caught. She crawled into bed without another word. She refused to think about him joining her. She hadn't been a good girl, even if he didn't know it. Not to mention that she had wasted half of her supply of essence of nightshade.

 The bed was big enough for Sandor and Brienne to sleep in it without touching one another. She grinned at the thought. Sandor and Brienne seemed to have straightened things out between themselves. Despite hating her for the result of that battle, once she got to know her, Arya quite liked the enormous woman. She respected her as a fighter, but only when she had seen the way Sansa relaxed when Brienne was around she decided she might not be that bad.

 She fell asleep after a while, refusing to admit she'd been waiting for him to come into the bed. The next thing she knew, she held her blade at his throat. His grip on her wrist was bordering on painful.

 "Be careful with that," he said. "You might poke someone in the eye."

 "It's Valyrian steel. I can do far worse with it," she said, and put the dagger back into its sheath under the pillow. "You can sleep in bed. It's fucking massive."

 "Didn't come here to sleep."

 Her pulse quickened. Where was all that sass when she needed it? He simply assumed she would let him do whatever he wanted. Outrageous!

 "Been thinking about tasting you all fucking day," he said.

 His voice had reached new desire-inducing harmonics. She forgot all about being outraged.

 "Did you think about it?"

 "Yes," she barely whispered through her suddenly dry throat.

 He placed his palm over her frantically beating heart. He squeezed her breast with infinite gentleness and slowness.

 "You're agitated," he said. "Are you afraid?"

 "Mno."

 It came out more like a moan than a word.

 "Good."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100% Arya and Sandor in this chapter

## Arya

 

 

He was beside her in the enormous bed. The only contact between their bodies was his palm over her heart.

 "Never imagined we'd end up here," he said.

 Arya rolled her eyes. "No kidding."

 "I'm glad you didn't kill me."

 She opened her mouth to say something but he began lifting her shirt and the words scattered like leaves in the wind.

 "Want you naked," he murmured, tugging down her breeches.

 Her too eager fingers tangled in the lacing. She made a note to never wear anything like that in bed again. When she was finally naked, he bent over and kissed her belly, his lips resting a moment longer on each scar.

 "Each one of them means you're alive," he said.

 His breath tickled her skin but the words shook her on the inside. She hadn't paid them much mind. They were just there. She hadn't wondered what a lover might think of them because she had never thought she would have a lover.

 He moved on top of her, hands and knees on either side of her body. She tensed, the fighter in her violently uncomfortable to be on her back under a much larger opponent. The woman in her wanted to feel his weight press her deep in the mattress.  

 Silently, he rested his forehead between her breasts. It was uncomfortably intimate. Much more than kissing her breasts or fucking her with his fingers. She could almost imagine him praying to some god.

 She caressed his head, tangling her fingers in his hair. Her hands were shaking worse than when she messed up with the nightshade essence. She explored his broad shoulders and worked her way up his neck. She found the scar left by the bite mark. Her voice sounded strangled when she spoke.

 "We're both alive. I'm… glad I didn't kill you, either."

 All the answer she got was a puff of air on her skin accompanying a snort. She grinned unguardedly in the dark. There was something of a stubborn wild horse about her Hound.

 His short-cropped beard scratched her as he kissed his way down her torso. Before they started this journey, Arya had insisted on him grooming himself appropriately if he could pass for her father. The longer beard would have cast doubts about him being a knight, but now she wondered if it would have been softer on her skin.

 He had crawled back on hands and knees until his head was above her pussy. Her legs were relaxed, but still close together. He put his right hand on her thigh, and Arya felt her cheeks grow hot at the eagerness with which she spread her legs.

He shouldered his way between them and she started to panic. She had never felt so vulnerable. She had been afraid and she had been outmatched, she had been blind and she had been stabbed, but she had never wanted to abandon herself to her enemy.

 The big man between her legs was not an enemy. She shivered thinking how easy would have been for him to take advantage of her. All those months together, he'd been without a woman, and she was right there. He had even known when she flowered, so in the eyes of the world a woman able to bear children. The flash of retroactive fear for what he might have done to her disappeared in the storm of very real sensations.

 He ignored her already throbbing pussy in favor of her inner thighs. He kissed and licked and lightly bit her flesh, inching painfully slow toward what felt like the very core of her being. She couldn't hold back the whimpers any more. She signaled her weakness with panting breaths and gasps and ultimately with words.

 "Please. I want."

 She wanted more. Wanted release. Wanted him.

 Arya raised her head to see him. Everything he did to her felt like drug fueled pleasure. She had to make sure it wasn't a dream created by some potion like Shade of the Evening. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he looked up at her. Arya tried to etch the image of his head between her legs for all the long cold nights that were to come.

 They locked eyes for a mere moment because when his tongue made contact with her flesh, Arya threw her head back and arched her body. Strong hands held her steady while the tongue played up and down her folds, flicking wickedly over her clit without paying it the due attention.

 She resorted to begging again.

 "Gods, please. I… please… I need…"

 She made an effort to open her eyes, and she was met with his burning gaze. His tongue slowed down, and began circling lazily around her clit. She clutched at the sheets and forced herself to keep looking at him while she felt his lips latch onto that tiny bundle of nerves that seemed to contain her very essence.

 The climax came immediately and she took the image of Sandor's eyes behind tightly shut eyelids.

 When she came back to herself, Sandor sat next to her in bed, propped on his elbow, watching her. He was still wearing his breeches and undershirt while she was completely naked. When she shivered, he pulled the blanket over her. He lay on his back, with an arm under his head.  

 She was grateful for the space he gave her. If he touched her, she would cling to him embarrassingly tight, and she would tell him so many sweet and sappy things that her reputation would never recover. One question did gnaw at her.

 "How do you know how to do… all of this?"

He stared at the ceiling, and Arya wondered if he heard her.

"Long before I was Joffrey's shield, Lord Tywin sent me to look after Tyrion Lannister. To get him out of whatever trouble he got himself into. Which was a lot, but never serious. We didn't become friends, and I don't much like him. You can't be around him and not learn a thing or two about pleasing women. ”  
  
"I heard he only sleeps with whores."  
  
"Most difficult thing in the world," Sandor said. "Pleasing a woman who had hundreds of other men before you. It takes real talent and the little Imp definitely has it."

 "Did you watch him, or what?" she asked, half horrified, half curious.

 "I heard the women talking after he left. After they had taken his coin."

 "What did they say?"

 "They were surprised he took the time to learn what they liked. And he didn't treat them like holes in a mattress. I was young and stupid. Until then, it hadn't even occurred to me that they had feelings."

 She had known whores, and she knew well that they had feelings. But she also knew how the world worked, and how men didn't usually bother to think that their wives or daughters had feelings, let alone whores. She wanted to snuggle next to him, but she sensed that he had more to tell her, and she didn't want to distract him.

 "I always wanted to be different than my brother. Better than him. Before meeting Tyrion, I thought that not fucking was the opposite of raping."

 "You hadn't been with a woman before then?" she asked as gently as she could.

 He tensed. "When I was fourteen, I had to… prove I was a man. Gregor raped a girl to show me how it's done. I did the same to her sister after he threatened to kill them both if I didn't."

 She shivered. It spoke volumes about the man that instead of getting a taste for raping young girls, he had gone the other way.

 "I couldn't touch another woman before working for Tyrion."

 "And after?" she asked softly, barely containing the need to touch him.

 "I started learning after that. And whenever I was with a woman, I tried to please her. I wanted to learn when they enjoyed what I did and when they pretended."

 Arya remained quiet for a while. She'd been in brothels. She'd been an unseen observer most of the time. She hadn't heard any of the whores in Braavos speak kindly of a client. The closest they came to expressing enjoyment in their work was when they described the power they had over men. Judging by what Sandor Clegane had done to her for the past few nights, the whores of Westeros had been in for a treat. He certainly had ways to please any woman he touched.

 It occurred to her that he might well have done this during their travels. Not that he had much chance to visit whorehouses while they hid from Lannister guards, the Brotherhood, random bandits who wanted him for the price on his head, and her to rape. She got lost in thought for a while.

 "Are you disgusted?" he asked.

 His voice sounded calm, but curious. She'd seen him bitter and resentful. She was used to him snarling and cursing. How could her gruff and blunt Hound change so much?

 "What? Why?"

 He let her work through what he had shared about his past. About his skills.

 "I envy you," she said eventually. "For bringing pleasure into this world. The only gift I learned to give…"

 She let her words trail off. They had both given that gift to many people. Maybe she would have the chance to make up for it before they had to part ways.

 She pondered her next words carefully. She yearned to open up to him, to tell him that he mattered to her more than he would ever believe it. She wanted to tell him that if she could choose one man in the world to be in her bed and by her side, it would be him. But she couldn't make the promises her heart clamored for her to make. At the end of that journey, death waited for her. And if by any miracle she'd live through it, she would be dragged into the game of thrones as soon as she returned to Winterfell.

 "It's more than what most people-"

 She interrupted him.

 "I want to learn how to please you," she said breathlessly. 

 "You don't have to-"

 She interrupted him again.

 "I didn't fucking say I have to, did I? I **want** to."

 "Aye, you did."

 The silence grew long and uncomfortable. She tried following his breathing, to see if he was falling asleep, but her mind was skittering all over the place. How embarrassing would it be if he refused? What if the only way she could please him would be fucking and he'd been bloody clear that wasn't going to happen.

 "I'm not trying to trick you into breaking whatever fool ideas you have about preserving my honor. Aren't there any… games… we could play… that would p-please you?"

 She had stumbled on her words and stuttered like some silly girl. She wanted to disappear into a puff of smoke. How could she have butterflies in her stomach so soon after her body had been ravaged by the most delicious sensations she had ever experienced? All that sweet satisfaction she had just felt had vanished. She was eager for his touch again. What was happening to her?

 "Are you sure?" he asked.

 His strained voice didn't sound anything like his usual cynical bark or his cantankerous growl. If she had to liken it to any of the shades of raspy, it reminded her a little of the tone he used when he tried to be threatening to avoid conflict. Men who didn't heed that tone, died. Violently. What would happen to her if she didn't back down?"

 "Yes," she said.

 "Give me your hand."

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

## Arya

 

Her perfectly normal hand seemed suddenly much smaller when it was in his. She remembered those hands from her childhood. Big strong hands that had killed for her more than once.

 She remembered every little detail about him, and yet he was so much more than she had thought him to be. Those hands that killed had pleasured her beyond her wildest imaginings. Could her killing hands learn to create pleasure in the world?

 She had seen his cock before. She had spied it as often as she could, not that it had been difficult. He didn't seem to care if she saw him pissing or bathing any more than when she saw him eating or sleeping. She had been a curious child, depending on any scrap of information to stay alive.

 After washing countless bodies in the House of Black and White, she had a decent idea what his cock would feel like in her hand. Same as so many others, except warm. And maybe bigger.

 He placed her hand on his groin, letting her feel the shape under his trousers. Arya's eyes widened. Maybe it was the fabric between her hand and his skin, but it did not feel at all like she had expected. It was definitely big, and clearly warm, but it was also thick and solid and… alive.

 She traced the shape with timid fingertips and nearly drew her hand back when it twitched under her examination.

 "Are you well?" she asked, sincerely worried.

 That thing was swollen. It couldn't be healthy. And yet even as she asked she kept tracing the contour with her fingers, delighted by the feel of the strange hard flesh.

 "Aye," he said, more a groan than a word.

 "Do you like this?" she asked, trying to wrap her hand around his cock through the fabric.

 This time he only groaned, and unlaced his breeches with jerky movements. Arya's hand hovered unsure what to do while he pulled his cock out. Maybe it was the poor lighting in the room, but what she saw did not match her memories of his cock or any other she had seen.

Mesmerized, she reached out to touch it.

"Fair warning. When you touch it... might be over pretty fast."

His words made her hesitate.

"Oh," she said disappointed. "You want me to stop?"

"I'd rather you didn't," he said hoarsely. "But you can-"

 The voice broke when she wrapped her hand around the hardened shaft. It was like steel wrapped in silk. It felt like the hilt of an exquisite sword. Not one that she could comfortably wield though, being too long and too thick to hold on to in a fight. And too lively, she realized. The thing pulsated in her hand when she squeezed.

 Even in the flickering fire light, she could see the bead sparkling at the top. She remembered that liquid heat came out of her when her body liked what was going on. He wasn't complaining, so she might not be at such a poor start.

 "What should I do?"

 "What do you want to do?" he asked, his voice strain but genuinely curious.

 That frustrated her. It was like begging Jaqen to start teaching her, and being let to figure things out for herself.

 "Really?" she snapped. "You want to see if I have native talent at this or what?"

 "Actually, yes," he said, barely shaping the words as he breathed more heavily than when he was lifting up tree trunks.

 His cock pulsated in her hand, and she noticed that she was moving her fist up and down his shaft unconsciously. A memory flickered in her brain, but too faint to make out who was in it. She'd seen that up and down movement of the hand somewhere.

 "Well, if you became a scholar all of a sudden, let me tell you what I want to do to… this."

 She stopped, unexpectedly unable to say the word cock for the first time in her life. Her mind searched frantically for something to say that would appall him.

 "I want to lick this part," she said, rubbing her thumb across spongy shiny part at the top.

 She said it for the shock value, but her mouth watered when the image formed in her mind.

 "Seven hells," he said, and growled while his cock reacted to the words. "You do that and it's gonna be over instantly."

 He put his hand around her and pulled it further up until her fist encased the wetness at the top. It smeared her palm, and when he guided her up and down his cock. It slid much easier.

 "Fuck," he groaned.

 He let go of her hand, and Arya watched him greedily while she continued the movement. She went from tip to base, alternating slow with fast movements, trying to guess what he liked best. Sandor was completely useless at giving verbal directions. His eyes were closed and his whole body tense.

 Again, she remembered how she felt when he touched her, how tension gathered inside her and she couldn't release it until he touched her a certain way. Was he expecting her to find out how to do it? She'd been pretty fucking clear that she had no clue. If he didn't help her… it would server him right if she just took her hand off and left him like that.

 She shook her head. She couldn't do that. Seeing the pleasure on his face was breathtaking, and she couldn't get enough of it.

 He put his right hand over hers, and concentrated her movements at the top. Short, fast motions that made him breathe harder and all too soon her fist filled with another, thicker liquid that kept spurting from his cock for a long time.

 When his cock stopped squirting and started to soften, he released her hand. Arya looked interestedly at her palm. It was coated with a whitish, translucent, thick-ish substance.

 He was watching her, with the same annoyingly curious expression. She wiped her hand deliberately on herself, starting on her breast, down toward her belly. She stopped short of reaching between her thighs.

 She saw the spark of possessiveness in his eyes when he growled. She had his seed on her skin. She was his.

 "Gonna come all over those tits of yours next time," he said.

 Arya trembled at the gravelly sound of his voice. Next time. There would be a next time.

 She couldn't wait.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

## Arya

 They passed by a band of drunken idiots whose sentries failed to notice them. She heard them laugh and boast talking about the women they had raped while their husbands and children watched. It took a great deal of restraint to sneak past them without doing anything to them. A few drops in the flask they passed from one another would've been enough.

 She gritted her teeth and turned back to where Sandor was waiting for her with the horses. They went wide of the men who had no clue how close they came to dying. The detour took added hours to their journey, and by the time they got to the next village, the bandits were already there.

 She saw them set fire to the abandoned houses, and she lost it.

 The village was clearly abandoned, but to see those shits burn down houses people built and loved and to which they might return once the war was over… Righteous anger took over. She got off her horse and started killing them, one by one. 

 When she finished, the village was quiet except for the rustling of the fire. Sandor had somehow contained it to three houses. He hadn't joined her in killing the men, and by the look he gave her, he seemed content she was alive and relatively unharmed.

 They chose a comfortable house, with enough rooms and beds in good condition so he didn't need to sleep on the floor. He didn't scald her for attacking the bandits, but if he kept to his two rules, she wouldn't get any treat that night. Killing those men was a fight that could have certainly been avoided.

 Although she didn't expect his visit, she kept only her undershirt on. She was not going to wear any kind of pants in bed for as long as they travelled together. Even if he didn't come to her bed, remaining naked from the waist down would make it easier for her to pleasure herself.

 She tossed and turned in bed, fighting the urge to go to his room and sneak into his bed. She had her pride after all. He was the dog who had to follow her around.

  _Next time._

 Her nipples tightened, and tingled with need. The image of his huge cock painting her breasts with his seed made her whimper when she touched herself. Her touch was light, and pleasant, and familiar. She brought back the memory of his eyes looking into hers, his head between her thighs…

 "Sandor," she whispered, imagining his tongue instead of her finger.

 "You seem to handle it well without me," he said.

 Arya opened her eyes and jerked her hand out from under the blanket. She hadn't even heard him come in the room. That was fucking dangerous. She should have been aware of her surroundings not indulge herself.

 He sat down on the bed, and raised her hand to his lips. Instead of the gentlemanly kiss on the back of her hand, he opened his mouth, and sucked her still wet fingers. She barely managed to stop herself from whimpering. Her pussy throbbed, demanding attention.

 As if he knew it, he reached between her folds. The pleasure she felt under her own fingers was pale compared to what his fingers kindled.

 "Ready for me, were ya?"

 "No," she lied.

 He laughed and shoved not one, but two fingers in her pussy. Arya gasped and clenched around the intrusion. After having his massive cock in her hand the night before, she knew she should get used to being stretched. He ran his thumb over her nub while two long, thick fingers thrust inside her.

 Pleasure increased until she felt the edge of orgasm. She growled frustrated when he took his hand off her, but forgave him when she saw him stand up and undress himself. The room was far better lit than the one at the inn.

 Arya sat up in bed and watched with open mouth as he took off his clothes. Either she was entranced or he was doing it slower than strictly necessary. A thrill went through her when his cock sprung out of his pants. She swallowed wistfully when he took it in hand and made it grow bigger and harder. If he gave her the chance, she would lick it from root to tip, and then try to take it in her mouth…

 It was so beautiful and thick. Would it fit in her mouth? How much of its length would she be able to take in?

 "Wanna taste it," she blurted.

 His lips quirked in a smile she hadn't seen before. A mixture of smugness, amusement and surprise. 

 "Is that a game? Or am I disgusting?" she whispered, doubts suddenly plaguing her.

 "Was it disgusting when I tasted you?" he asked, coming closer.

 She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his cock.

 "Sit here," he said, pointing at the edge of the bed.

 Arya scampered out of the tangled sheets and sat on the edge of the bed without questions. The bed was tall and her head was at the same level as his cock. She licked her lips, but didn't dare to touch it. He took a step closer. The tip bumped into her, leaving a wet trail on her cheek. She gasped at the sensation.

 Sandor bent at the waist to grip the hem of her undershirt. "Raise your arms," he said, and pulled it off her. He reached down to fondle her breast. His cock poked her shoulder, smeared her skin, tempted her to touch it with her lips until she couldn't resist.

 She put her hand at its base and leaned forward to take it in her mouth. He stood up immediately to align his cock with her mouth. She started with small, tentative licks on its head, then grew bolder and explored along the length of its veins.

 She opened her mouth wide to take it in. His heavy breathing emboldened her. She advanced a few inches and she felt her as though her jaws were going to dislocate. She tried to swallow. He shivered and pushed deeper. She could feel him trying to stop his hips from thrusting into her, so she started bobbing her head, willing herself to take more of him in.

 His hand fisted in her hair and he pulled her head back.

 "Enough for now," he said.

 He pushed her gently but firmly back in bed, and knelt between her thighs. She was a quivering mess of desire, but he managed to add to it. His beard on the inside of her thighs was almost as delicious as his tongue along her folds. His lips nibbling at her clit and his fingers burrowing inside her. The sound of his panting and the occasional curse word. Everything kept inflaming her desire, and yet nothing brought her over the edge.

 "Please," she begged in a ragged voice. "Sandor, please."

 He slowed down the rhythm of his lapping to an infuriating painfully insufficient speed.

 "My lady wants to come?" he asked.

She didn't have the energy to argue the title.

 "Yes. Fuck, please."

 He bent his head over her pussy again and squeezed her clit gently between his lips. She was so close. She clutched at the sheets and raised her bottom from the bed, trying to angle herself better, to rub herself on his lips, on his beard, anything that would help her get passed that plateau of pleasure where he kept her.

 "Not tonight," he said

 "What?" she asked weakly.

 He rested his head on her inner thigh, and watched his fingers trailing slowly up and down her folds. Every time he traced her clit, at the apex of his trajectory, she felt a jolt of pleasure, but he ignored her reaction and caressed his way down to her entrance.

 "Not tonight," he repeated. "You will not get a reward tonight."

 "Come on! You can't mean it."

 "You know why. Rewards are for when you don't risk killing yourself for no reason."

 "I fucking hate you," she said.

 He reached down and flicked his tongue over her poor throbbing clit.

 "I hate you, too, lady Arya."

 She put her hand on his head, but he removed it.

 "This reminds me," he said.

 He climbed into bed, and pulled her with him. Arya hoped for a moment that he was finally going to fuck her. He rolled partially on top of her, his throbbing cock pressed between their bodies.

 He burrowed his head in the crook of her neck, and stopped moving. Arya squirmed, trying halfheartedly to wriggle from underneath him. Her left side was only partially covered by his body – she wondered briefly what it would be like to feel his entire weight pressed down on her. Another frustrating shiver went through her body and increased the tension in her belly.

 She tried to free her left hand to touch herself until she finished what he started. From the first movement, he laced his fingers through hers and pushed her arm down into the mattress.

 She grunted in frustration and felt he muscles of his face shift against her skin. The bastard was smiling!

 His left leg was on top of her. If she spread her legs she could rub herself against his thigh. For a few delicious seconds, she crushed her clit against his hard muscles and rolled her hips chasing her release.

 She felt the wave forming inside her, and when she was on the cusp, he pulled his leg out from between her thighs and clamped them together.

 "Fuck!" she screamed in frustration.

 "No fucking," he said in the most obnoxious lazy tone. "Not tonight. Not until you're in Winterfell."

 "Fuck you, Hound!" she said heatedly. "Who do you think you are to do this to me?"

 "I'm the one who's keeping your legs closed and who's not going to let anyone else fuck you, either," he said. "Just so you don't make plans."

 That knocked the air out of her. She hadn't even considered ever allowing someone other than him to touch her. The fucking fuck! She'd gone and fallen in love with the fucking Hound.

 How stupid was that? Even more stupid than sulking that a man like him didn't fuck her bloody. Except… there's always blood the first time. Fuck! She was making plans for her first fuck now?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  _'Sulk all you want.'_

 She heard his voice from the memories.

  _'The truth is you're lucky.'_

 Time and experience showed her that she had been lucky then. And that it should be him. The first time. And every time after that. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only this story doesn't end with this chapter, but Chapter 9 is almost done, and it is not the last chapter either! These two will be the death of me.  
> No smut this chapter. Angst/hurt/comfort and an indecent proposal.

## Arya

 

 Her God called for her. Not for the first time, Arya heard the calling. Not for the first time she thought it would be easier to let go than stand the pain for one more heartbeat. She had done her duty in the world. She had served her God well.

 She was worthy of an epic death like that. Killed by the undead dragon she sent into oblivion.

 Her task was done. Viserion was dead. Jon and Danaerys could ride the other two and rid the world of the living of the threat. Little Arya had done more than anyone would have expected of her.

 She let herself slide against the ice wall. The voice of her God soft in her ears. It was a good day to die.

 At the edges of her consciousness, she heard another voice. Rough and hot. Nothing like her God's. How dared a mortal call her when she was about to meet her God?

 Dead. The word pinged in her head. Viserion was dead. Was dead the right word? He'd been undead. He was… more dead now?

 The annoying human voice bellowed and she heard the clang of steel around it.

 "Arya!"

 Sandor?

 He sounded in trouble. Why did they always have to get themselves out of trouble? If she would just stay against this cold wall, she would find peace.

 "ARYA!"

 Why was he always taking her away?

  _'Watch the only thing of value I've got in the world ride away?'_

 She was all he had of value in the world, wasn't she? Without her, the old dog would die in the ice castle. She stood up. Pain stabbed through her leg so sharply, her breath stopped. Death was preferable to that. Her God asked her again.

 The sound of fighting in the distance.

 She stood up again.

 "Valar morghulis," she addressed her God. "But I say to you: not today."

 She couldn't hear Sandor any more. She had to find him. She had to save him. And get him out. She had to get out of that room first.

 It hurt to walk.

 'Fuck pain.'

 She couldn't see anything in the complete darkness of Viserion's lair. Blind Arya hadn't needed to see to kill the most accomplished assassin she had ever come across.

 'Fuck darkness.'

 She hobbled along the wall of ice. Her hand was freezing but letting go meant crumbling to the floor and losing all sense of direction.

 'Fuck cold.'

 When she got into the hallway again, she saw Sandor in a circle of wights. In the corner, a White Walker was reanimating those who had fallen. Her frozen fingers were coated in shards of iced blood. It took a frustratingly long time to find the dart. Even longer to dip it wolfsbane mixed with crushed obsidian.

 She had one shot before the he saw her. She made it count.

 The dart lodged itself into one of the creatures glowing blue eyes. He managed to half turn toward her with his staff raised before he died.

 "No, you don't, cunt," she said.

 All the wights fell to the floor like puppets with their strings cut. Sandor ran up the stairs toward her.  

 "Couldn't leave without me, could you?" she said.

 He threw her over his shoulder as he had done when she was a child.

 "Can you possibly scold me when we're fucking out of here?" he growled, running.

 "We're fucking?" she said.

 He barked a laugh. "I unleashed a monster with those games."

 He climbed on his horse, and held her across his lap. It reminded her vaguely of other times when they rode like that. The mixture of hatred, fear and trust he inspired her for so long. She was on the verge of losing consciousness.

 "Well? Changed your mind about fucking me?" she asked, grasping at the straw to keep the pain from overwhelming her.

 She could see him torn between laughing at her question, and the fear they won't make it out before the others discovered Viserion's death.

 "We'll talk about it when you're better," he said, and spurred his horse as fast as he could gallop on the icy slope.

 "You're not very smart, are you?"

 "It's been said before," he said.

 "I know. By me."

Her body gave in to the pain, weariness and blood loss. She drifted into dreamless slumber.

 

#

 

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Sandor Clegane, with his eyes closed, at the foot of the bed. He rested his back on one of the bed posts. He looked thin under his beard. The beard itself seemed longer than it should have been.

 She tried to make out details of the room. It seemed so familiar. Winterfell? Her old room? It couldn't be. Through the window, morning light fell into the room just as she remembered it.

 Her heart softened when she looked at the chain mailed warrior sitting on her childhood bed. He seemed at peace, as if he had laid down a heavy burden, but she could see lines on his face that hadn't been there before. At peace, but sad.

 Her movements were restricted by bandages as she sat up. Apparently, she had retained her stealth because the big man didn't wake up when she crawled to the other side of her bed. She rested her head on his lap, and closed her eyes. Instinctively, he started to stroke her hair. Arya fell asleep again with a big smile on her face.

 When she woke up again, brown eyes were looking at her from above. She stretched like a cat and smiled despite the pain in her muscles. The noon sun painted her room with warmer shades. She used to have sewing practice around that time of day.

 "How did we get here?" she asked.

 She reached out and tugged at his unexpectedly long beard. "How long have I slept?" 

 "The Queen picked us up on her dragon. You've been sleeping for a while. They made you drink potions to take care of the dragon wounds."

 Oh. Those wounds. Viserion hadn't gone down easily. Arya knew her body and she had felt the difference when she slashed herself climbing the dragon's scales.

 "The war?" she asked.

 "Better now. Without the dragon you took out and the White Walkers killed in your brother's raid, the tide is turning."

 "When can I fight?" she asked.

 "You'll have to talk to the Maester, Dragonslayer."

 He ruffled her hair.

 "I promised Lady Stark to tell her as soon as you wake up," he said.

 Arya frowned. She knew she would have to talk to the Maester, and to her sister. But not yet.

 "It was the only way to get her out of here," he went on. "She stayed with you day and night."

 "Where were you?" Arya asked, uncomfortable to learn of her cold sister's devotion.

 "At the door."

 Of course he was at the door.

 "Go tell her, then. I'm not going to make you break your promise."

 He helped her back onto her pillows. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders before he stood up.

 "Thank you."

 He was at the door when she stopped him. "You got me back at Winterfell. A maiden, like you said. All bets are off now."

 He didn't turn. She expected a sarcastic remark, a smug smile, something other than to see his shoulders slump before he left the room.

 

## Sansa

 

Now that Arya wasn't writhing in pain or sleeping fitfully, she didn't seem small and helpless any more. Sansa wished that made easier what she had to ask of her little sister.

 Arya dispatched with the small talk giving short replies. Her stare pushed Sansa to the unpleasant part of the conversation.

 "You did so much already, but there is one more thing I have to ask of you."

 Her sister cocked her head, and looked at her with their father's somber grey eyes.

 "The Great War is almost over, and the game will begin again, more fierce than before."

 The Game.

 "House Stark is sworn to Danaerys Targaryen. The North has the men to help her ascend the Iron Throne, but getting them to King's Landing may prove difficult."

 Arya nodded. Both she and Sansa remembered the battles Robb fought in the South. Arya probably also remembered all the battles from Robert's rebellion.

 "We need ships," Sansa said. "Cersei has the Royal Fleet and the Iron Fleet."

 Arya nodded thoughtfully. As Sansa expected, her sister was up to date with all the military forces in the Seven Kingdoms.

 "And then there is the Redwyne Fleet," Arya said.

 "House Redwyne has no history of allegiance to the North," Sansa said. "They despise Tyrion and loathe Cersei. They were loyal to House Tyrell but…"

 "But House Tyrell is extinct, thanks to the Lannisters."

 Sansa went to look out the window. She remembered Tyrion saying that they would find another way but, louder than Tyrion, she heard Petyr.

  _'Chaos is a ladder.'_

 "What does House Stark expect of me?" Arya asked.

 The calm words felt like the sting of a sword through Sansa's heart. She turned to look at her sister and saw the glint of steel near Arya's bed. Her beloved Needle.

 "Marriage," she said.

 "To Lord Redwyne," Arya finished her sentence.

 "Yes."

 "When?"

 "As soon as you are healed."

 Arya got out of bed and stood up straight. The bandages around her torso were spotted with blood.

 "I will do my duty," she said.

 Sansa wanted to take her words back. Lady Stark needed the ships. She would have married the man herself if not for her responsibilities as Wardeness of the North. What was a third failed political marriage? After Ramsay, she could handle anyone.

 "For what it's worth," Sansa said. "I am sorry to put you through this."

 Arya bowed her head curtly, but made no reply.

 

## Arya

 

 They were alone in the small room Sansa used for meetings. Ser Sandor Clegane hadn't refused the title bestowed on him by Danaerys. Arya looked at him as he bent the knee formally in front of her. She sensed the distance he put between them, and she allowed it if that was what he needed.

 He didn't look surprised when she told him about her impending marriage.

 "Come with me to the Arbor as my shield," she said.

 By her side in the daylight, in her bed after the sun set. She wouldn't be the first married woman to take a lover.

 She had her faces. No one needed know.

 She could live with anything if he came with her. Shield during the day, lover during the night. It was so much less than he deserved, but even living a lie with him was better than living honorably without him. The world owed them happiness.

 "I cannot," he said.

 She saw the pain etched on his features. She had expected the answer, but she had held on to hope that love would be stronger than honor.

 She'd seen that look on his face before, when he was sunken into the arms of despair. Begging for death. That time, she had been the one to leave him. Now he was leaving her.

 "You're paying me back for letting you die alone, is that it?"

 "Arya," he said, but closed his mouth.

 "You are more cruel than your brother." She spat the words, too angry to regret them when he flinched. "What you did to me, was evil. Do you understand that? I was content to die in any mission, and you took that away from me. You made me feel life is worth living. You made me weak."

 He hung his head.

 "Didn't mean to."

 She looked at him disdainfully. His intentions didn't matter.

 "I burned the heart out of me once, I can do it again," she said. "Arise, Ser Sandor. Our business is concluded."

 He stood up straight, and left without meeting her eyes again. He hadn't even protested when she used his title.

 'You made me need you like the air I breathe,' she thought.

 She had lied to him. She wasn't going to burn him out of her. She needed the memories of him to keep her warm in what was going to be her cold marriage bed.

 Arya stroked the pouch where her little flasks nestled safely. Milk of the Poppy, Essence of Nightshade and all the others would come make sure that her old husband had many peaceful nights, and a vague false memory of having consummated their marriage.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline -
> 
>  "Marriage" is what happens right after this chapter, but because I hate sad endings, I'm going to post 2 chapters (I hope no more) that describes their happy ending from "Marriage". Here will be Arya's POV, in "Marriage" - Sandor's POV .
> 
> It was a lucky coincidence that there is a third fleet in Westeros and that the allegiance of that House is uncertain. It might not be something they would actually do politically, but it worked well for this story.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline  
> This chapter covers the beginning of "Marriage" from Arya's POV up to Chapter 6. 
> 
> What you need to know 
> 
> Arya never had sex with Lord Redwyne. She gave him mild sedatives to curve his sexual drive (because, as Walder Frey shows, just because men are old doesn't mean they don't have sex any more) and mild hallucinogenics from time to time to make him think they had sex. She never cheated on him, she didn't try to kill him with the potions. She just didn't want to fuck him.
> 
> She talked him into adopting Rickon and naming him heir, she set up trustworthy people around Rickon so that once he died she would be free to leave the Arbor. 
> 
> Once the old Lord Redwyne died and Rickon became the new Lord Redwyne, she left the Arbor. She took the western route north, to stop at Keep Clegane and check he was not married or in love with someone else before she got him involved in The Game

## 2 years later, Lannisport and Keep Clegane

 

She was wearing the face of a boy when she made her way through Lannisport. She looked around the market for some local clothes. Arbor clothes weren't that different, but she hadn't brought any peasant outfits with her. Having the right clothes helped blending with the locals, not the face.

 She haggled, out of habit, to get a good price for a horse. She had a day's ride to Clegane Keep and back.

 Her ship would stay in Lannisport for three days, unloading wines and buying all the provisions they needed to sail all the way into Saltspear, and up the Fever River. Then from Moat Caitlin she would take the Kingsroad straight to Winterfell.

 When she reached Clegane Hall, the old man who fed the hounds told her that Ser was at the tavern with the boys. She thanked him and inquired about the lady of the house. The old man's features clouded.

 "No lady," he said, and went back to his task.

 She found a secluded spot at the edge of the village, and put on another face. She changed into the peasant girl clothes, and looked for the tavern. It was child's play to talk the owner into giving her a bed for the night in return to her serving at tables.

 Sandor Clegane stood in a corner of the tavern, surrounded by laughing boys. They must have been around her age when she travelled with him the first time. He was his usual brooding self, not joining in the merriment, but he didn't seem too annoyed by it and was not trying to squash it either. Her hands trembled.

 "He's not gonna bite you, girl," an older serving wench told her. "Go, they need more ale."

 Her heart beat in her throat when she approached their table. She couldn't believe he was there. She could touch him if she just reached out.

 Her fingers gripped the pitcher convulsively. Her palms were sweating. She noticed her bosom palpitating at the top of her outfit and she tried to control her breathing. Suddenly, all the boys of the table stopped talking and stared at her.

 He didn't look at her face while she poured the ale. He did when he thanked her, and she felt her knees go weak. It didn't help when one of the boys said loudly 'That one likes you, Ser'.

 Life in the Arbor had softened her. She should have prepared better for this meeting. She'd been thinking about this man every night for two years. Why did she think she could keep her cool around him?

 "See?" the woman said. "He ain't bad. Better than most."

 "He seems so sad," Arya said.

 "Aye, he is that."

 "Why?" she asked in the tone of a young silly girl who wanted to hear a tragic story.

 The woman sat down, and Arya followed suit. She needed as much gossip as possible.

 "No one knows. He's been in the War. Up north. He fought undead and direwolves and giants. When he came back here, we thought he was gonna be like his brother, but he just stayed all alone in Clegane Hall, not coming in the village to do… like Ser Gregor."

 The woman's features darkened and she grew quiet, no doubt remembering life under Ser Gregor.

 "He's here now," she pointed out, nudging the story along.

 "One day an orphan boy ended up at the gates. He was half dead the poor mite. Ser Sandor ran with him in his arms all the way into the village. He came right here, in the tavern. We fed him, called the wood witch and got the boy patched up as best we could. Ser left and in two days he came with a healer."

 "What happened to the boy?"

 "There he is, at Ser's table. The one with hair like a mummer's wig."

 The big boy with curly reddish hair did not fit Arya's image of a starving orphan.

"After Ser had a talk with the boy's master, he kept him around. The second one was the old blacksmith's apprentice. When Ser found the boy, he did more than have a talk with the blacksmith."

 There was a somber satisfaction in her words. Arya knew how good it felt to see a bully get what he deserves. These people had lived under Gregor. They must have been terrified when Sandor came back. And now they all respected him. Even cared for him, judging by the tear at the corner of the woman's eye.

 "He's a lord, he's healthy, what does he miss?"

 "What is health and fortune if you have no one to share them with? You're young, what do you know? A good man like that is not meant to be without a woman."

 "No highborn lady wants to be his wife? Because of the way he looks?" Arya asked.

 "Looks? What's looks compared to a man's heart? Any highborn lady would be lucky to have him," she said, her tone harsher than ever before. 

 "I'm sorry," Arya said quickly. "I didn't mean… I think he's quite handsome," she blurted.

 Damn her lack of preparation. The woman read her through like an open book, and laughed.

 "Bless you, child. Don't hold out hope he'll bed you. Ye're pretty enough but Ser never takes anyone to bed."

 She patted Arya's knee and stood up. She returned to her work, and Arya swallowed the lump in her throat. She had wished so badly that he hadn't taken a wife in her absence, but the woman's words painted an all too sad picture.

 When she looked at his table, Sandor was no longer there. She went outside the inn, and stayed clothed in shadows, staring at the sky, trying to prepare herself. She would die if she didn't talk to him.

 Her heart skipped a beat when he walked into the moonlight. He sat down on a bale of hay and looked up at the moon. She spoke before all courage left her.

 "Why did you never marry?"

 He turned his head when she spoke, but her appearance didn't seem to grab his attention enough.

 "Go back inside, girl," he said, turning his eyes back to the sky.

 "Don't you like women?"

 Not what a nice girl would ask the lord of the land, but he ignored her.

  "You always come in alone," she said. "You never take anyone to bed."

 This time he looked at her more carefully.

  "I haven't seen you here before."

  "You haven't seen me, but I saw you," she lied casually.

 She sat down next to him. Heat radiated from his body, melting the ice with which she had surrounded her heart for years.

  "What do you want, girl?"

 The truth spilled out of her mouth.

  "A husband."

 He only laughed. Not mockingly.

 "Plenty of boys inside who would have you."

 His voice was somewhere between warning and kindness. Her own mouth however was spouting out the truth without consulting with her brain.

 "I don't want a boy. I want a man."

 "Run away now. You're bothering me."

 "I hope so."

 She touched the back of his hand with her fingers. He swatted her hand away, and stood up.

 "I'm in no mood for games. Take care who you offer yourself next time. Someone worse than me will take more than you're offering."

 She watched him go back inside the tavern. She would not follow. Not this time. She had learned all she needed to know. Walking back into his life wouldn't threaten the happiness of a family. Her Hound had been as miserable as her, and it was time for that to end.

#

 

Sansa was easy enough to persuade. Her sister's reaction confirmed that she had gone about it the right way. Even if she hadn't been a Stark, someone with her assassin training and her notorious record of murdering noblemen moving so close to the Hand of the Queen would not have gone down well. She'd rather not be seen as a threat to the Lannisters, or bring unwarranted suspicions over Keep Clegane.

 A part of her wanted to run to Clegane Hall and bang on the gates. Another part was making a case for the lack of wisdom in that approach. And the deepest part of her was afraid.

 He had blended a chain of love and lust and she was willingly walking into his power. Twenty-two years old and still a maid. All she knew about being with a man came from him.

 

## A month later, an inn a few hours from Casterly Rock, the day before their wedding

 

She chose a rat-grey dress with a high collar and lacing in front which she could put on without the help of a maid. Calling a girl from the inn to assist would draw attention that Lady Redwyne's maid had disappeared into thin air. Jeyla's face was neatly hidden away with the other faces.

 She put on the fine grey gloves she often used when she was snooping about in foreign castles, and let her hair loose so it would cover her face. She moved like a shadow, at one with the other shadows to get to his room, on the far side of the crowded inn.

 If he knew her at all, he'd know to expect her. Finding the door locked or not might tell her how much of a pain in the ass he was going to be.

 She pressed on the handle and let out a small sigh of relief. The door was unlocked.

 There they were, finally alone. In another anonymous room at some inn. But for the first time in a long, long time, she was showing him her face.

 He was sitting in bed, looking much like she had seen him when she woke up in her room at Winterfell.

 "We're really doing this," she said.

 "You got involved two Wardens to make sure. How could I say no?"

 He was trying to sound snide and she found it funny. Like he had any fucks to give if all four Wardens asked him to marry.

 "You being too shy to refuse was the least of my concerns."

 She sat on the bed, not yet comfortable to be so close to him.

 "I still remember the first thing out of your mouth I liked hearing. Fuck Joffrey. And fuck the Queen."

 "Still mad you didn't get to kill either of them?" he asked.

 She tugged at her gloves, finger by finger. She put the gloves neatly in her lap and looked at her hands.

 "The first time I picked red grapes, my hands looked like they were dipped in blood," she said. "It took me months to stomach red wine after that. All I could see in every bottle was the way my hands looked after I killed Merryn Trant. I don't think Syrio would have approved. It wasn't elegant. No noncing about."

 "Are you trying to tell me something, girl?"

 She had seen so much blood on her hands. He had killed men, too, but he had trained his hands to do other wonderful, incredible things. She had learned a lot from him. Maybe she would learn this, as well.

 "No. Yes. That list is done. Closed."

 "Good," he said. "I was last on the damned list and all the others are dead."

 "You know you haven't been on that list for years," she said softly. "Aren't you worried it's not really me?" she asked, daring to crawl next to him. "Just some waif wearing my face?"

 How close it had come to that. All those years ago. How easily that fight could have gone differently.

 "I know every inch of you. I'd know."

 His voice made her shiver. She hid her head in his chest. "I hate you," she said, but in truth she didn't hate, but feared the power he had over her.

 "You definitely closed the list though?" he asked.

 "I have a new one. You're on it."

 Her list of things she wanted to make right. He was at the very top of that list.

 "You said that changing the face doesn't change the body," he said. "I want to see it."

 That shook her out of her dark thoughts. He wanted her naked without as much as lifting a finger to do it. The nerve on him!

 "That has got to be the laziest thing you ever said to me! You want an excuse to see me naked and not make the slightest effort."

 He pulled her close, and she forgot to be outraged when she felt him close.

 "Want you naked," he whispered, nibbling at her ear.

 He made a token effort to unlace her dress. His hands may have learned new skills, but he was rubbish at fancy dresses.

 "You have other dresses, I hope," he said. "This one might not survive the night."

 That was more like it! The thought of him ripping the dress off her made more sense than her stripping demurely at his command. Things long forgotten were happening in her body. His voice did things to her that her nimble fingers and beloved memories often failed to achieve.

 "Sansa has a bunch," she said, instead of the less ladylike 'Slice it to pieces right now!'

 He was still pretending to try to work the laces.  She ran her fingers over his hands, drawing energy from that light touch.  

 "We're…"

 '….really doing this,' she didn't say when she felt his lips and beard on her neck.

 Maybe a low-cut dress and a cape over her shoulders would have made more sense. She tugged on her laces, but she felt them tangling.

 "Seven hells! One time I try to wear a proper dress!"

 She pushed him away, frustrated, and worked on the damned fiddly ribbons until her patience snapped a moment later and she reached for the dagger strapped to her ankle.

 "Let me," he said, taking the dagger from her.

 That was the hottest thing she could imagine at that moment. Valyrian steel in his hands, close to her skin. Close to her throat. Close to her heart.

_'That's where the heart is.'_

 It wasn't fear of death, but fear of love that made her pulse quicken and her breathing speed up as if she'd run for miles. After so long, what if she was wrong? What if there was nothing between them than accidental lust, born out of the shadow of death that always loomed around them.

 She couldn't stand the uncertainty any longer. Or the desire thwarted for so long.  

 "Can you move any slower?"

 "Aye."

 He actually moved slower! Sarcasm was biting her in the ass. She should know he was better than her at waiting. She chose the direct route.

 "Well, don't! It's gonna be morning by the time you cut through it. Didn't you say you want to see me naked?"

 That incentive seemed to work. He cut through that pretty dress like he was skinning a dear. She always loved watching him handle weapons. And her breasts.

 "This better not be a dream," she murmured and closed her eyes when his hand covered her breast.

 She grunted when he pinched her nipple and the pressure eased. She wanted to see his face but the sensations overwhelmed her. She felt his breath on her face. He was so close. She opened her eyes when he cupped the back of her head.

 "We never kissed," she whispered.

 Her lips brushed his when she spoke. That was closer than they ever got to kissing. Until then. She lifted her head and pressed her lips on his. It was a nice feeling, her lips tingled and she opened her mouth to speak.

 "That wasn't such a-"

 And then it changed. His tongue delved into her mouth and the room started spinning around her. She tore her dress up even more and pushed it down her hips, along with her small clothes. Unwilling to break the kiss while he took off his clothes, she was about to slice his shirt her dagger when he took it out of her hand and threw it on the floor.

 "That's fucking Valyrian steel," she said, but while she protested, his shirt landed in the same area of the room, and his mouth was once again in charge of hers.

 He lowered her slowly into bed, and she hanged on to his shoulders as he did so. She couldn't stop shaking, even when his weight pressed her into the mattress. His enormous cock twitched against her flesh, under the fabric of his trousers. Those had to come off and quickly. And they did.

 She was rubbing her thighs together to ease the aching inside. His hard flesh dug into her thigh. She was moments away from being his. She should tell him he would be the first, but her mouth wasn't working. She started to push her legs apart, somehow dreading the moment when he would find out that she was an old maiden.

 All thoughts of shyness and doubts flew out of her mind when he wrapped a leg on the outside of hers and clamped her legs together.

 "What are you doing?" she asked, heatedly.

 "Not until we're married," he said.

 She lost it.

 "Are you fucking kidding me?"

 "A man's gotta have a code."

 "You are the biggest idiot in the Seven Kingdoms!"

 She pushed him off her furiously.

 "Your words wound me deeply," he said dramatically, pulling her back in his arms. "What's one more night to wait?"

 "You are cruel."

 "You said that before."

 She squirmed at the memory. She had had time to think about her words. She never wanted to take them back, but having compared him unfavorably to his brother had been too much. Even if his decision to stay out of her life, out of her bed, had torn her heart apart.

 "I was right."

 "Do you know how many times I thought about what you asked me?" he said. "Do you know how much I wanted to leave everything and come to you?"

 "Why didn't you?"

 "You're the smart one. You should know."

 "Your stupid honor," she said.

 "Fuck honor," he spat. "Honor meant nothing when all I wanted was to touch you again. To make you shake and call out my name. To give you everything I had to give."

 His words touched a deep, sad part of her. She had spent many nights wishing he would come. Wishing she could conjure him by magic in her lonely room. The yearning in his voice had the same harmonics of pain she felt in her soul while they had been apart.

 "Then why?"

 "Because I'm dumb. And I would have died to see you with another man. To know you share his bed. To see him touching you."

 The raw emotion in his voice got to her. She wanted to tell him, but she couldn't go past the knot of tears in her throat.

 "I dreamt of killing him," he said. "And you."

 She swallowed hard. He kept caressing her while he spoke, but at the last words, his hand stopped on her neck. Large hand that could wrap around enough of her neck to stop the flow of blood if he squeezed. Arya knew how little it took to make someone pass out by squeezing their neck. And how close the margin was to go from putting them to sleep to killing them. She was too small to do it effectively with her bare hands, but he wasn't. His fingertips rested against her carotid. All he had to do was spread his thumb for a better grip, and squeeze.

 He leaned over and skimmed over her lips. Such a soft touch. His lips ghosting over hers. She hungered for a deeper kiss. His restrained frustrated and secretly delighted her.

 She would have let him fuck her outside the tavern when she had gone to Keep Clegane to check if he was still unmarried. She would fuck him right then if he wanted it. But the thought had snuck in her mind and nestled there. Having a proper wedding night might not be that bad. After all, she had her own surprise for him.

 She thought about telling him that she was still a maiden, but to her horror, she realized she was ashamed. She was twenty-two years old, and still a maiden. He might well like to be her first, but she knew how the world worked, and she knew that by that age, she was embarrassingly old for being bedded for the first time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy [Young Rory McCann swimming naked - Breakfast Cereal Commercial!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A42irOkWAkA)
> 
> Timeline
> 
> This chapter happens at the same time as chapter 11 of "Marriage"

 

 

 The wedding ceremony was short, as she had requested. The presence of Jon and Daenerys had come as something of a surprise, but she couldn't complain.

 Jaime was the odd man out at the wedding feast, and Arya was happy that he and Sandor had found something to talk about. Sansa was doing her best to fill the uncomfortable silence between her and Jon, but she seemed distracted.

 The Queen was talking to Tyrion, but when he left, she turned to look at her and Sandor.

 "Do you intend to spend all your wedding night with us?" Daenerys said.

 Arya blushed, and she felt Jon tense next to her. She shook her head, unable to speak.

 "No, your Grace," Sandor said. "If we may be excused."

 The Queen nodded, and Sandor took Arya's hand.  

 She couldn't look Jon in the eye when they left. She couldn't imagine anything more mortifying than her brother knowing she was going into another room to fuck. Except possibly the Queen's delighted smile as she looked the two of them up and down, and then seeing her mouth the word: enjoy.

 "Your brother-" Sandor said when they were in the room.

 "The King," she interrupted.

 "Said I took advantage of you," he finished.

 "You kind of did."

 A muscle twitched in his jaw.

 "I did not," he said.

 She heard anger boiling under the words. She meant it as a tease. He'd taken advantage of his experience and made her want him to despair, but he was thinking of another time in their lives. She knew his feelings on the matter.

 "I'm sorry," she said. "I was teasing you."

 "I could have," he said. "I could have done things to you. Things people thought I'd done before."

 Despite his contempt for knights, he had behaved like a true knight from stories while they walked across Westeros, looking for her relatives. He had treated her like the willful child that she was. Even after she had flowered and became a woman.

 She took his hand and forced him to look into her eyes.

"Sandor, it's me. I know. You fed me, and kept me safe without asking for anything. You didn't let others have me to get out of a fight even though you were outnumbered. You didn't get mad at me for killing men. You taught me to be better at it. I remember everything we've ever done together."

 "Why do you let me touch you?"

 His voice twang with despair. She knew that feeling. The tightness in the chest. The racing heartbeat. The need to throw herself in mortal danger to earn salvation. The fear of anything good that happened to her.

"You know why, or you wouldn't be here. **We** wouldn’t be here if you didn't feel the same."

 "Aye."

 He reached out and cupped her face in a big hand. Arya pressed her cheek in his open palm. She leaned to press her lips on his wrist.

 Strange as it was, she loved him with heart, body and soul. He'd been her entire world during harsh times, she wanted to share with him the good times. She planned to add a thousand good memories for every bad memory he had in his childhood home. But until they made it to Clegane Hall, they had to get over their wedding night in Casterly Rock.

 She forgot about her plans when his mouth opened hers. He thrust his tongue in her mouth and heat spread through her body like wildfire. She pulled him toward the bed. They stumbled their way through the unfamiliar room, kissing and groping.

 He sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping her standing between his legs. She tried to push him backwards, but he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her cleavage. Her breasts were squeezed at the top by the tight lacing, and she finally got the reward for surviving in Sansa's uncomfortable dress. His beard chafed against her skin as his lips and tongue explored her with delicious fervor. The sound of his hungry growls drove her crazy. She wanted him to fill her where she was wet and aching.

 He was trying to undo her lacing at the back without much success.

 "Should we wait one more night?" she asked teasingly.

 He looked up at her, with lust in his eyes and a wicked smile on his lips.

 "It's your fault," she said. "Your games unleashed a monster."

 He put a hand on the back of her head and pulled her forward into a devastatingly heated kiss that left her breathless.

 "You have my word that I won't fuck you until you ask," he said, breathing almost as heavily as her. "You did it to me last night, let's see if you can resist."

 "Is that a challenge?"

 "Yes," he said, and jerked down the front of the dress. Her breasts popped up above the cleavage.

 As far as challenges went, Arya was sure she did not want to win this time. Not when he sucked on her nipples hard, making her dizzy with desire. She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched her back, offering her breasts to his hungry mouth and hands. He bit and licked and kissed her skin, he squeezed and kneaded and crushed her breasts, he pinched and rolled and sucked her nipples. Her chest was red, wet, and throbbing. Much like another part of her he hadn't even touched yet.

 As if he read her thought, his hands began exploring the underside of her dress. It was a frilly thing, with lots of skirts underneath to make it look voluminous, but he found his way into her small clothes in no time.

 "You liked that," he said in a low, raspy voice while he dipped his fingers in her wet pussy.

 She didn't get a chance to answer because he began circling her clit with his fingers. Arya moaned, and started shaking when he found the perfect pressure and speed. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, whispering his name when she came.  

 He held her in his arms until she came back to herself.

 "You let me finish," she said. "That wasn't very smart."

 "I'm not that smart."

 She claimed his lips in a soft kiss that became more and more passionate with each heartbeat.

 "Yes, you are. The more you give me, the more I want."

 His smile lit up the room. He really had no idea how handsome he was. 

 "I want to be yours," she said.

 "Are you asking me to fuck you?"

 "Yes."

 "Then get out of this dress," he said, and tried to work on the lacing again.

 Frustrated, he reached down her leg, looking for the Valyrian steel dagger she had strapped to her shin.

 Arya put her hand on his. "I think the dress should stay on. For practical reasons."

 He raised an eyebrow.

 She disentangled herself from his embrace, and flopped on the bed next to him. Her breasts spilled obscenely over the top of her dress. He leaned over her and resumed playing with them. She lost her train of thought looking at his shaggy head pressed against her chest. That mouth of his drove her crazy when he talked, and crazier when he was using it on her skin.

 He raised his head enough so he could look her in the eye when he asked in a muffled voice. 

 "What's the practical reason?"

 "Sansa pointed out…" She sighed when his hand reached under her dress again. She gathered her courage and fought to focus on speaking when his fingers burrowed under her small clothes. "… that people might get the wrong idea if they found blood in the room."

 He raised his head, but kept fingering her. "What sort of stupid thing is that to say?"

 "Actually… There's something I have to tell you."

 She closed her eyes when he reached a spot inside her that made her see stars. She put her hand on his wrist, and gently pushed away.

 "Arya? What's wrong?" he asked cupping her face.

 "The dress has enough fabric underneath to soak the blood."

 "Arya?"

 "You know how you insisted to bring me back to Winterfell? Well… that hasn't changed."

 His eyebrows knotted, then the realization hit him. He scrutinized her face, weighing her words.

 "You're not joking," he said.

 "Of course not!"

 He looked at her in silence for a long time. The intensity in his eyes made her shiver. He pressed his lips on her forehead.

 "Gonna hurt you," he whispered.

 "I know," she said. "I want this. Want you."

 He might not have had much experience with virgins, but there was that first time, when Gregor made him rape a girl. She needed him to know there was a world of difference between that nightmare act and what was happening with them. 

 "I'm not sorry," he said hoarsely. "I want it to hurt. Want you to feel you're mine."

 Her sigh of relief turned into a whimper of need. His raspy voice did things to her as much as his fingers or his tongue. It made her writhe with need. She'd welcome the pain that came with him.

 "Please," she said. "Don't want to wait any more. Please."

 "The dress stays on," he said.

 He pinched her nipple between his lips before standing up. Arya watched him take off his shirt with steady, measured gestures. It wouldn't do to get blood on his clothes, but he was annoyingly calm.

 "If you fold the shirt, I'll scream," she warned him.

 The words caught in her throat when he unlaced his breeches. Two dozen candles lit the room as if it was daytime, yet she craned her neck to see even better. She knew his cock with her eyes, hands and mouth, but she felt like she was going to see it for the first time. He took off his trousers, and stood fully naked in front of her. The shadow of a smile quirked his lips. His hardened cock rose higher under her eager gaze.

 "Fucking hell," she whispered.

 The low growl in his throat resonated in her body. That was getting too much. He could turn her on without even touching her.

 He knelt between her legs, and started uncovering her, layer by layer. He pushed up the brocade dress, then worked his way systematically through the white linen skirts underneath. She was panting like she'd been running for miles. When she felt the cool air on her skin, she shut her eyes tightly.

 His fingers trailed at the edge of her panties, then over them, down between her legs where the fabric was soaking wet. She barely heard the sound of her dagger being unsheathed over the noise of her heavy breathing.

 She felt the coolness of the steel over her hipbone for a moment, before he sliced through the fabric in one swift move. He did the same on the other side and he leaned over her. He took advantage of his height to suck at her nipple while he reached down her leg to put the dagger back in its sheath.

 His hands were now free to roam over her partially uncovered body. Arya arched up to help him remove the scrap of fabric remaining from her panties. His cock jutted against her thigh. She delighted in the clear impression it left in her flesh. Hard as rock, smooth and silk, the round tip wet as her own flesh.

 He skimmed over her folds with his fingers, as if making sure he was welcome. She quivered when he thrust two fingers inside her. She had no idea how much longer she could stand the anticipation.

 When he finally replaced his fingers with his cock, she was at eye level with his chest. He propped himself on his elbow to avoid crushing her under his weight. How many times she had found safety nestled at his strong chest? She ran her hand over skin, hair and scars. His breathing grew heavier as he pushed the thick, swollen tip inside her. Arya tried to relax her muscles but she was throbbing.

 "Not gonna stop," he said. "Even when it'll hurt."

 She nodded enthusiastically, spreading her legs wide to accommodate his body. She knew how to ignore pain, but this time, she didn't want to. She wanted to feel it all.

 He advanced without another word. She whimpered as he stretched her with his massive girth. Pleasure flooded her body while he moved slowly, giving her time to adjust. There was no pain until suddenly, there was. The piercing pain was nothing like being stabbed and yet, the contrast with the intense pleasure brought tears to her eyes. She dug her fingers in his back, and held her breath, not wanting to ask him to stop.

 She put her forearm over her mouth to stop from screaming. He hesitated at her muffled grunt, but proceeded. The large cock burrowed through her. It stung, and burned, but as promised, he didn't stop. She wrapped her legs around him, and he groaned at the shift in position.

 "So fucking tight you are."

 His thickened voice and heavy breathing released a timid wave of heat inside her. Soon, the pain blended with pleasure when he started rocking his hips back and forth slowly. Her climax built up hesitantly, faint in comparison to the many others he had offered her. And yet, being at one with him filled her with joy. She was his, and nothing could change that.

 He kept his movements slow, but he stayed inside her longer with each thrust. Her inner muscles tightened around his cock, squeezing him, burning with pleasure and lingering pain.

 "Fuck." He stayed buried inside her for a long time, tremors coursing through his body. "Fucking hell," he whispered hotly, as if he lost an inner battle. "Hold on," he said, and his hips began moving.

 Rapid, powerful thrusts, accompanied by grunts and curses. He pumped into her until she felt him lose himself with her name on his lips.

 He collapsed next to her, and gathered her to his chest. She nestled into him, and relished the mixture of satisfaction and restlessness in her body.

 They had slept close to each other many nights. She knew the pattern of his breathing before falling asleep. Long ago, she waited for it planning to kill him. He was wide awake, something spinning around in his mind. Whatever it was, his silence annoyed her.

 "What?" she asked.

 He ruffled her hair. "You, in a dress… I'm going to like it."

 "You're not going to expect me to wear dresses all the time, I hope."

 "Not all the time," he said. "Can't imagine you sparring in a dress."

 She perked up. She hadn't sparred in years. In the Arbor, all she managed to do was her water dancing practice alone in her room. Running the castle, overseeing the fleet, and all the other hundreds of little things expected of lady Redwyne had left her no time to sneak out wearing another face and spar like a free person. Lady Clegane was going to be free to do so many things she had denied herself over the years.

 "Do you still spar?"

 "Not really. I taught the boys how to fight, but I don't fight them. You can be the Master at Arms."

 "I can teach them water dancing."

 She elbowed him in the ribs when he puffed in mock disdain.

 "Speaking of the boys… I think we should take in girls, too."

 He turned to look at her. "Just how far ahead have you planned?"

 "Now that you ask… I have some plans. When I visited the Keep, and I heard you're already training boys… made me think. Once you told me you considered crossing the Narrow Sea and joining the Second Sons. That's an option for someone who is already a seasoned fighter. We can do something here, for children who have nothing. We can teach boys and girls, not just how to fight, but also how to read, how to survive."

 She had other plans, as well. Before leaving the Arbor, she had promised to go with the Redwyne ships to Essos at least once each year, to negotiate conditions in the Free Cities. She was going to enjoy having him at her side during the negotiations.

 His eyes sparkled. She didn't remember when she last saw that expression on his face. Pride. And hope. For as long as she'd known him, all they had done was survive from one day to the next. Now they could dare to believe in a future.

 "I'd like that," he said with the shadow of a smile on his face.

 "And I'll give you private water dancing lessons."

 "You bloody won't."

 "I have to thank you somehow for all the things you taught me," she said, and rolled on top of him.

 She kissed him before he made any other protests. He wrapped his arms around her and roaming over her back while he allowed her to kiss him. His fingers worked the lacing until the dress opened.

 "Take it off," he said.

 She kissed him one more time before sliding off his body. She shed the dress to the floor. She was naked except for the dagger at her ankle. She bent to undo the straps.

 "Leave it on," he said, and pulled her back in bed.

 

 


End file.
